Goodbye, Blue Sky
by Radioheaded
Summary: AU/RPF (Neither men are actors here). Jensen Ackles goes to his Uncle's Cabin to escape, to get away from it all. He goes to piece himself back together, to find himself again. But what happens when he finds a barely coherent, bleeding stranger near his cabin? Maybe it's a question of what, not who, his mystery guest is.
1. Chapter 1

Nighttime has long since bled black into the sky, obscuring the blue and the light that comes with it. Jensen Ackles squints in the dark, trying to keep his Jeep on the road while searching for his Uncle's cabin. The trees that line a road that might have been even 50 years ago blend together, knitting long limbs to create what feels like a blanket of nothingness around him.

"Fuck," he mutters to himself, not bothering to check the gps that sits on the seat next to him. It lost a signal about twenty miles back, and besides, he'd almost thrown it out the window when it tried to send him the wrong way down a one-way street. He and Sean (the rather mechanical Irish-voiced setting on the device) aren't exactly seeing eye-to-eye at the moment. So he just keeps going, peering through the woods, hoping that he won't have to sleep in his car. But as he resigns himself to the fact that he's probably going to have to curl up in the back seat and hope for better luck when it's light, he finds himself pulling into a clearing, and a second later spots a mailbox with the name 'Ackles' painted across the side. Finally, he thinks, relief flooding through him. As much as he screwed around in the outdoors growing up, this is an entirely different neck of the woods, and he has no interest in finding out just how big and confusing it really is.

The cabin looks just how he remembers it, though he'd only been once before as a brooding teen, cursing lame parents for pulling him away from friends and his summer vacation back in Texas. With a sigh, he parks the car and stretches, arching his back until it burns sweetly, rolling his shoulders to get some of the kinks and tension out. His suitcase and the few bags of groceries he's taken with him are carried easily enough in one load; on the door, taped to brittle, splitting wood, is a note, labeled simply 'Jensen.'

 _Jensen,_

 _The key's under the plant, like always. Directions to the county store are on the counter in the kitchen. I hope you have fun, kid. It's nice to know someone other than the caretakers will enjoy themselves here. Call me if you have any problems._

 _-Dave._

The key, as promised, is indeed under a potted plant near the door. He lets himself into the house and breathes deep the scent of woods and clean air. And god, the silence. It's bone-deep, punctuated only by the surrounding nature and animals, which only make the seclusion more obvious. But it's welcome—needed, even. It's a place to think straight, to get away from all the stimuli of life and distraction. It's a place where he can stop, just for a second. A few revolutions of breath (in, out, calm) later, he decides it's time for a beer. The groceries are basic and put away quickly; his clothes he leaves in the suitcase, too lazy to do anything with for the time being. He turns the lights on as he goes through each room, revealing a little cabin that time forgot. Everything is exactly how it was, though he is much changed. But something about the simplicity of the remote vacation spot puts him at ease, makes his insides unclench, if just a bit.

He chooses to settle down in his old room. There's a television that wasn't there before, though it doesn't actually matter, since all it seems to pick up is the fuzz of electric snow. The sheets have been changed, the bed crisply made. His uncle's caretakers were good, whoever they were. Wherever. He sets his sweating beer down on the bedside table and lays back on the cool sheets, staring at the ceiling. He doesn't try to fall asleep, especially not in his clothes but the coils of unconsciousness unfurl within his mind, dragging him down and away. The taste of baked earth and salt is hot on his tongue and by that alone he realizes he's dreaming, but he's not in control anymore, can't regulate the situations that follow. He's running now, can feel the fingers of sweat leak down his face and back, a disgusting caress that only speeds him up, though his lungs burn and legs ache. He has to keep going, though, can't stop because the hisses and snaps that sound behind him aren't playing around. There's a house ahead, one made of stone and he thanks a God he doesn't believe in as he slides behind it, almost collapsing as he leans into it. He sighs, relief filling his veins, rushing through him alongside blood that's not doing its job—can't be, because fuck, he just needs air and he can't find it, can't get it in fast enough.

It's when he looks down, though, that he stops breathing completely. Because there's a woman there, one who can't be more than twenty-five, and she's holding something but blood obscures everything until she swipes a trembling hand across the bundle and he can see that it's a child, a child that's making wet gasping noises like cough-choking. He reaches, moves to help and then—

It's a sound that wakes Jensen up. He doesn't know at first, though, because he's too busy gripping his head, catching his breath as his heart pounds in his ears and the tips of his fingers, a pound that sounds like alive alive alive. Doesn't feel like it, though. And then there it is again, a sound, one that finally makes its way through his panic but only makes it flare up again because it sounds like a person, a howl, a cry for help.

Ice blooms in him, makes his chest tighten so he can't move, can barely think, but he fights at it, tries to push it away. _Come on Jen_ , he urges, _Get up. Go see what it is._ He does, and the fear dissipates because this is his place and he can handle himself, isn't going to let the past that haunts his dreams start taking over his life. A quick look around produces a baseball bat that he grips steadily, the weight comforting in his hands. He flicks on the outside light before heading out onto the porch, where nothing seems to be out of his place.

But then—there it is again, lower now, quieter, a moan of pain, of pleading. With careful steps, Jensen heads toward the noise, one foot in front of the other, pupils opening up in the dark, seeking any light to guide him over uneven ground. He stumbles soon enough, though, over something that's not solid enough to be rock, that's too large to be a tree branch. He counterbalances, arms wheeling madly, and falls solidly on his ass.

"What the," he hisses, reaching out before reason can stop him, warn him that, hey, whatever he's just tripped over could be a bear or a bobcat or some other equally dangerous animal that would probably like nothing more than to rip his arm off. Sense doesn't show up, though, so his fingers continue forward until they connect with soft fabric and beneath that, the skin of a person.

"Shit, shit!" Jensen scrambles back a little, but the person in front of him doesn't move, doesn't try to get up and rob or beat him, so he inches forward again, holding his breath.

"Please," a voice whispers, and it's low, a guy's, but it's also faint and heavy with unmistakable pain. Instantly, Jensen's touching lightly, trying to find the guy's waist so he can be helped up, moved inside to be looked at. He slings his other arm around the man's torso.

"If you can walk, try to help me, ok?" He says, keeping his voice steady, trying to speak slowly, succinctly. Standing is a bit of an obstacle, even with the weak help from the guy, who seems to be at least four inches taller than Jensen himself. But he's strong and there's a rush of adrenaline in his veins that tells him he will get this person inside, he will help them, no matter what.

The path to the house stretches into infinity like the horizon, each step taking more out of him than the last, but then they're there, crossing over the threshold together. Jensen holds the man lightly as he reaches for a kitchen chair, though his grip tightens as he starts to sway. When the stranger is seated firmly, Jensen kneels before him, takes in strong, sharp features, long eyelashes and dark hair that curls around his ears. He's handsome in a way that looks carved, designed by artists, borne into perfection that's carefully cultivated, attention paid to every detail. He would be even more beautiful, Jensen knows, if he weren't covered in blood.


	2. Chapter 2

The air, Jared notes as he makes a slow, painful ascent back to awareness, to clarity, is thick with the smell of blood. His blood, if his senses are still to be trusted. For a blessed moment, he finds himself numb, unaware of anything but the strange sluggishness of his mind, how simple thoughts drag, as if he's trying to pull them through cement. But the moment ends, as all do, and his senses sharpen and focus, heightened by the fire that curls inside his body. Every synapse is alight, shooting bolts of lightning through splitting veins; as soon as he becomes aware he wishes he wasn't, wants to fall back into the abyss of nothing where pain like this is just a bad dream. Beyond the rising spike of his pulse which radiates through his entire body and the ragged gasps of his breathing, he hears something...else. Someone else. Someone else who is currently running soft fingers over various parts of his body, shifting him gently, as if his long limbs are made of porcelain and he's desperately afraid of breaking them. He's not a threat, that much Jared is certain of, though why he's so sure is beyond him. Maybe it's the inflection of the touch, the firm, gentle way he's being handled—there's care there, unmistakable concern emanating from the body so near his. The hands make their way up Jared's chest until they reach his heart, sending a shockwave through him. He sucks air through his nose sharply, eyes springing open as he curls up, pulling his knees to his chest instinctively. "God, sorry, sorry!" he hears, and a face enters his slightly blurry field of vision. Green eyes stare down at him, rimmed with lashes the color of charcoal; they're thick, almost feminine but the effect is soulful, enhances the color of the iris so they stand out, a shock of verdigris against the dark. The gaze makes Jared fumble, absorbs him so he's distracted, so he doesn't notice when the stranger lifts his shirt because he can see the concern in those eyes, first as they're fixed on his face, more so when the gaze slides lower, directed at his skin, checking for damage. Jared tries to fight but his arms splay, boneless. The thread of lucidity is slipping from him, telling him to stop fighting, to just go to sleep. "A lot of bruising, man," he hears, and for once he's thankful for his age. Those younger than he might not have healed so quickly. He's lucky, even, as he barely has any blood left in him to speed the process along. An hour ago, there had been an open wound on his chest, circular, about six inches deep. "Goddamn Buffy wannabees," he mumbles, though the words are slurred, almost incomprehensible even to him. The last thing he remembers before being unceremoniously dumped in woods to die is the sharp, soul-splitting impact of a wooden stake rammed through his chest. It was the first of three; the others went into his stomach and spine, left there so he would bleed out. He can only assume he was left in the open woods for nature to take its course, for the sun to finish what his attackers had started. 'And they say my kind are monsters,' he thinks, eyes rolling back in his head when his rescuer finds the other closed entry wounds. He doesn't have the strength to contort again—the moan that spills out, low and pitiful is weak enough. The man soothes, makes 'shh' noises and general chatter, tells Jared he'll be alright, that everything will be ok. But then the word 'hospital' makes its way through the haze and he shakes his head, wincing as his body screams, twists like it's being torn apart. "No hospitals," he groans, words rubbing like sandpaper in his throat. "Please." The man rubs his head, stares at the ceiling for a moment and in doing so shows Jared his neck, the subtle blue of veins underneath tanned skin. It's not his heart Jared hears anymore. No, now the strong tattoo of the stranger's steady pulse thrums in his head, coats his dry mouth with saliva at the anticipation of spilled blood that will slide readily down his throat in thick sheets, thundering with life. His teeth ache at the thought, upper incisors and canines begging to extend, to taper off into deadly tips that will sink through the stranger's skin like a knife through melting butter. He's scared the man with his sudden outburst—he can hear it, can smell the surprise in blood that flows a little faster, carrying life and the man's essence through him. It calls to Jared and he's slithering closer, shifting subtly until he's pressed against the other man, pulling him close. "Please," he whispers, the feeling coming back to his hands long enough for him to grip at the man's hips, to look into his eyes and lull him into a haze that will make his bite easy, painless. He shudders with need, control slipping, allowing the animal part of him to emerge as he transitions to a predator, pressing his face into the junction between the man's neck and shoulder, licking a lazy stripe there to taste the fading mint of some invigorating soap and a musk that's almost sweet, a scent that is the man's own. As his mouth descends, fangs ready, aching for that first spurt of heat, Jared catches sight of himself in the glass of a china cabinet across the room, eyes wild, face painted red. Now he looks the part of his attacker's skewed vision—feral, dangerous. Inhuman. His teeth gleam, even in the soft yellow light of the cabin, giving him a horrifying grace, a deadly beauty even he finds hard to stomach. "No," Jared grunts, pushing the man back, but not before he extends a bit of shaking power that's enough to influence, to flood the other man's body with sleep that drags him under quickly so he collapses on the floor, not that he had far to go. Running only on sheer will, Jared stumbles to the door, inhaling the crisp tang of autumn air. His eyes flutter shut and he extends, reaches out with his mind to find something, anything, that will slate his hunger for the time being. Animals aren't his favorite but they do the job, and he won't be able to stop himself if he feeds from the man who saved him. There's something else there, too, a need for permission, maybe, but Jared pushes it away, having found a coyote close by, stalking quick rabbits that aren't in danger anymore, as their would-be hunter has just turned into prey. He takes the animal down easily, though it puts up a struggle, squirming and bucking in his vice grip, growls and whines peppering the air around them. But soon enough he's sinking teeth in, swallowing quickly, drinking deep and the animal stops its fight, shuddering as he feeds. The blood is hot and brutal, alive in a primitive rush that bolsters him, allows him to burst through the shroud of pain that coats his senses like a film. Strength floods back into his muscles, knitting together what's been torn, pulling blood from bruises back into veins. When he's done, the matted corpse limp in his arms, he stands to brush himself off. He's not completely well, feels the shaky energy akin to that of a broken fever, but he is better. He won't attack the man. The man. Jared heads back to the cabin, closes the door behind him and goes to pick the man up off the floor where he'd been left, but he stops short, absorbed by the scene in front of him. Usually those he puts to sleep are peaceful, given pleasant, restful dreams. But this man looks to be suffering, chest rising and falling quickly, murmuring pieces of broken words, brow furrowed in concentration that has beads of sweat forming on his forehead. Jared kneels next to him, removing his influence. Those green eyes open again, confusion obvious in their depths. He's open, vulnerable in a way that Jared's only ever seen before in children. But it doesn't last; a second passes and the man hardens, shield coming up between him and the world. He glances around, surprise pulling down the corners of his mouth when he sees he's on the floor. "What happened?" He asks. "You fainted," Jared says, lying easily. "What's your name?" The subject change takes, distracts the man, who introduces himself as Jensen. If he doesn't believe Jared's lie, it doesn't show. Jared gives his name, and Jensen's features rearrange themselves into concern. "You shouldn't be moving," he scolds, sitting up. Jared allows himself to be ushered back to the couch, where he stretches out, remembering to keep his movements hesitant, careful. Jensen gets him water, aspirin, then disappears into the bathroom, leaving Jared to take in the details of the cabin he's in. The space is cozy, all worn rugs and homey charm. The atmosphere feels warm, like the place is full of good memories, times of holiday and ease. Jensen returns and Jared takes him in, the slim hips and powerful legs, sharp cheekbones and broad shoulders. He's muscular but slight, a man in his prime. Then he notices the bowl in Jensen's hands. It's sudsy, and he clutches a damp rag. "Turn toward me?" Jensen asks of Jared, a line forming between his brows. He holds up the cloth as an explanation. Jared acquiesces, watches Jensen as he dips the cloth in the water and wrings it out, liquid trailing over his fingers, before lifting it to Jared's forehead, scrubbing lightly at the crusted blood. His strokes are steady, slow, full of care and attention. Jensen bites his lip as he works, studying Jared's face so intently that the latter feels a flush color the skin, blood taken from the coyote lending him warmth. When the water is tinged pink, Jensen nods to say he's done. "Do you think you can change?" He motions to a suitcase, pulls out striped pajama bottoms and a shirt. "I mean, I know these will be like high-waters on you," Jensen says, looking at Jared's legs for a beat, "But you should really get out of those clothes." Jared realizes how true the statement is, how uncomfortable his shirt and pants are, stiff with blood and caked with dirt. He nods, holding his hands out, making sure that they shake a bit. Jensen gives the clothes over and stands awkwardly, hands rubbing at his jeans, like he doesn't know what to do with them. "Well," He pulls a thick, knitted blanket off the loveseat next to the couch and puts it at Jared's feet. "Are you gonna be alright?" "I—" Jared almost dumbstruck, reeling at the polarity of interaction he's had in one day. First he's almost killed by humans, then he's saved by one, a perfect stranger that didn't hesitate to help when he saw that Jared was hurt. "Yeah," he finally says. "I don't know how to thank you." He earns a smile. "No need," Jensen says, biting at his lip again. "I'll see you in the morning." With that, he turns away, disappearing into the second room on the left. The door shuts softly behind him. Jared stands, takes off his clothes, grimacing as they stick to him. They're balled up on the floor when he's pulling Jensen's clothes on, the softness of the fabric like lotion on his skin. And the scent, God. It's in the very fibers of the shirt and pants, under the detergent and fabric softener, the remnants of sweat and pheromones, both calling to Jared like a siren's song. He ignores it, settles back on the couch and listens to the faint beat of Jensen's heart, quieted by the distance between them. Exhaustion catches up to him. He closes his eyes. *** Jensen can't believe he fainted. He shakes his head ruefully, embarrassed, even though he's alone. It's strange though—in the moments just before he went under, he wasn't dizzy, didn't hear the telltale ocean roar in his ears. But maybe it just came on fast. He lies back on the bed, stretching tense muscles until they vibrate. God, he's keyed up. His beer from earlier sits on the table where he left it, now in a small puddle. With a shrug, Jensen reaches for the bottle, tilting his head back as he lifts it to his mouth and drinks deep, not stopping until it's empty, the contents rushing down to his stomach. Sleep hurtles toward him; he can sense it, like the vibrations of an oncoming train. The last of the adrenaline will leave his system, and the beer will ease him into relaxation. As he shucks his jacket off, he remembers he left his suitcase in the living room, but he's not about to go get it. So he just pulls of clothes until he's down to boxers, grumbling over the fact that the temperature has dropped and it's more than a little chilly. But the blankets on his bed are warm enough, and soon he's sliding away, body giving up control, mind blooming with flashes of places and things. For the first time in months, he doesn't have a nightmare. The strong sun of morning reaches through Jensen's window to pool on his body, warming his face, turning the black behind the veil of his eyelids a dull red. He wakes in stages, a little confused over how well rested he is, how the usual bone-deep fatigue feels a bit lighter. Last night nags at his brain, reminds him that there's a very tall injured man on his couch he should probably be attending to. Said man is still asleep when Jensen trudges into the living room, limbs still pushing away the after-effects of sleep paralysis. Jared lies on his side, body mostly obscured by the chunky blanket Jensen's grandmother made just before she died. But the top of his head is visible, displaying a mop of dark brown hair, not black, as Jensen had thought last night. Jared's lashes are long, curving sweetly toward his cheekbones, twitching every so often with from the REM movements under the lids. Jared comes to then, awakens with a lucidity usually only available to Jensen until after his third cup of coffee. Jared doesn't look especially surprised to see Jensen, to be in a stranger's house after what he can only assumes was an assault of some kind. "Hey," he says, looking down at Jared. Before he can stop himself, he's resting the back of his hand on the man's forehead, testing the skin's temperature. His mother did that when he was young, though she would kiss his forehead instead, saying that lips were a much better gauge of temperature before peppering the rest of his face with loud, exaggerated smooching noises. Jared is cooler than he'd like, but at least he doesn't have a fever. "How are you feeling?" he asks, keeping his voice soothing, calm, just in case Jared doesn't remember that he isn't a threat. "I'm ok." Hazel eyes meet his, and the words sound strong, or moreso than last night. Jared's voice is deep, a little thick, like his throat is coated in molasses. "You-" Jared's brow furrows, lips pull down. "You didn't take me to a hospital." "You asked me not to." "Most hu-" Jared pauses, aloft in his thoughts for a moment. "Most people would." "I'm not a doctor," Jensen says slowly, sitting back on his haunches. Jared looks him up and down, eyes widening a little. Probably because Jensen forgot he was almost naked, save for his boxers. 'Great,' he thinks, choosing to ignore his almost indecency, clearing his throat before he continues. "But none of the bruising looked like they stemmed from internal bleeding. And when I was washing your face, your pupils relaxed and contracted as they should have. So I didn't think you had a head injury." "I think I'm alright," Jared agrees, pushing himself up on the couch until he leans on the arm. "Yeah, alright for looking like you had the shit beat out of you." Jensen frowns. "Who did this?" Jared doesn't look at him, focuses on the hands curled in his lap. "I-god, this is dumb. I was at a bar with a friend. He was upset over a break up. Guess some of the locals thought we were together. They jumped me, and the next thing I know, I'm being dumped here." He finally looks up again, quirking a brow at Jensen. "Where's here, by the way?" "Windsor, New Hampshire. Otherwise known as no man's land." "New Hampshire?" Jared's voice is tinged with disbelief. "New Hampshire. Damn." He laughs, a loud, body-shaking guffaw that makes Jensen wince with sympathy pain-the motion had to hurt the bruises he saw all over Jared's body. But the other man has a poker face, apparently. If he's in pain, he's not displaying it. "I'm from Connecticut," he says, explaining the laughter. "Wow, they really must have wanted to get rid of me." Jensen cracks a smile, playing along, but there's something off with the situation. How could Jared react like this, after he'd been almost killed? Why isn't he angry, upset, afraid? The man in front of him looks impish, like he's sharing a secret with a friend. He doesn't look like the mewling, prone almost-corpse Jensen had seen last night. "Did they hurt your friend, too?" Jensen asks, thinking back to the streaks of blood he'd washed from Jared's skin. "No." The laughter that had curled Jared's mouth releases it, setting it straight, a red gash against the pallor of his skin. "I'm 6'4", Jensen. I got some shots in, too." "Good," Jensen nods. "Good." His legs are stiff when he stands, knees cracking loudly. "I'm, uh, going to put on some clothes, then I'll make us breakfast, alright?" His suitcase is near the couch, waiting for him like a dog at the door. He bends, pawing through various shirts and pants but without seeing anything because he can feel Jared's gaze on his back, knowledge that makes his skin prickle, that sends his circulation a little lower. He grits his teeth, ordering his body to stop, for the love of God. It's already embarrassing enough to be in his underwear without having to turn around and reveal a tent that would leave little to the imagination. He slings the clothes over his arms before crossing them casually, subtly masking any arousal that might show. He comes back dressed, ready to cook breakfast with the groceries he'd picked up last night. Jared's sitting at the table, though he looks up as Jensen approaches, sending him a mega-watt grin that reveals slight buckteeth. The index finger on Jensen's right hand itches with need, with desire he thought had abandoned him. For a second, he worries that he's going to come off strange by asking what he's going to request from Jared, but he can't think of that now, not when he's been captivated like this. He bypasses the kitchen, returning to his bag to pull out his baby, his passion, the love of his life: a Canon Mark III. He hasn't touched it in months, couldn't bring himself to, not after-'No,' he warns himself. He won't go back to those memories. Not now. Jared's staring as he cradles his camera, long fingers brushing over the black metal and plastic. It fits in his grip, belongs there, and the urge to use it, to filter his perspective through his trusted lens is back, more powerful than ever. "Can I-" Jensen knows he sounds like a shy teen asking for a love interest's number, but this is personal. All his pictures, and thus his subjects, are. "Can I take your picture?" Jared hesitates. "I-do you publish them?" "Not in awhile," Jensen grins, making fun of himself. "But trust me, I won't do anything with them. I just really want to capture you." The words sound strange, maybe even to him, but that's what he does-he looks past the facade, finds the truth inside and pulls it out because that's where the beauty lies, even if it's meshed with sadness, or pain. "Ok," Jared agreed, and Jensen catches a flash of disbelief, but directed inward, as if the other man can't believe what he's about to do. "Do I have to do anything, or?" "No," Jensen says, eyes already obscured by the viewfinder. "Just look at me and be yourself. Don't do anything you don't want to do." Jared straightens at the advice, looks square into the camera and Jensen's caught, almost stagnated by the power of his eyes. He focuses on them alone, the depths of hazel that form complex patters of green and gold and maybe a little white and blue. "Can you turn toward the light a bit?" He asks, hoping Jared isn't in too much pain. "Yeah," the man answers, looking thoughtful. "I think I was in shock, maybe, last night. So surprised at what happened that my mind created most of the physical pain." "Maybe," Jensen says, pulling the focus back, catching the light as it softens the angle of Jared's jaw. "The mind is powerful." He should know. "Are the pictures going to be good?" his subject asks, genuinely interested. "Don't know yet," He's releasing the shutter rapid fire now, getting all the nuances of Jared's movement, the way the man slides his tongue quickly over his lips, the way he stares up at Jensen through his lashes. "But I'm going to go out on a limb and say yes." "Am I that interesting?" Jared's smiling again, pulling back that mouth, showing those teeth but it doesn't reach his eyes. Jensen brings the camera down, sets it on the table. His hands are slick and he feels like strange, apprehensive, but it's like something else is controlling him, bending his will. He approaches Jared, who is still, almost too still, back pressed into the chair, eyes glued to Jensen. "Yes," is all he says before leaning down, stopping a hairsbreadth away from Jared's mouth to look at him for a split second before closing the space between, pressing heated lips to Jared's cooler pout. The tips of his fingers ghost over Jared's cheek, so light Jensen barely feels the smooth surface, but the man moans, opens his mouth and swipes his tongue across Jensen's bottom lip. Jensen's euphoric; he knows that what he's doing is probably crazy, kissing a complete stranger in very strange circumstances, but he doesn't care. The in and out and around pattern they're creating makes everything else fall away, unimportant.


	3. Chapter 3

Jensen hums into Jared's mouth, a sensual purr that turns into a moan, sending Jared's blood low, the beginnings of pleasure pooling in his stomach. He reaches for Jensen, hands fisting first in his shirt, curling into the fabric before dropping to his hips, cupping the cut muscles there. But as his fingers begin to stroke at the skin there, thumb moving in slow circles, Jensen breaks the embrace and the sober face of reality rears its head, looking them both in the eye. Jared knows why he shouldn't do this, knows his control is on shaky ground at best right now, that a wrong movement, a nick, a thin trickle of Jensen's blood is all it will take to reveal himself as the creature he is. He doesn't want to see the look in Jensen's eyes, realization that will morph into disgust, into hate. And though Jared could make Jensen forget everything, that he was ever even here, something in him, a quiet part he didn't think existed anymore, voices its protest. He wants Jensen to keep a part of him, even if it's just a memory.

The thought is terrifying. He shouldn't feel this way, doesn't even know Jensen, really, but the yearning, the attachment is there nonetheless. It's like it happened while he wasn't looking, an deadly attraction that settled in him while he was unaware, already too deep to extract. God, he can't think straight, not with Jensen's hands on his shoulders, the rapid breath and beat of his heart surrounding him, loud as the ocean. He forces himself to look at Jensen, into his eyes and see the life there, the fragility of the mortal in front of him, of what it would feel like to see Jensen's blood on his hands, to watch the spark of life be snuffed out and to know it was his fault.

It works; the human's blood, his heart isn't so distracting anymore. But it puzzles Jared nonetheless—he's almost two hundred, he should be beyond the blind blood lust that plagues the youth of his kind. Not even the youngest _need_ to kill, though, apparently, the hunters who'd tried to rid the world of him didn't get that particular memo. Hell—he remembers the their shocked expressions as the first stake went in and he didn't immediately die. He bets they thought he would turn to dust, shrivel into oblivion in front of them. He would have corrected their mistake, but he was too busy bleeding, body shutting down for its own protection and regeneration.

"You're far and away," Jensen says, into Jared's ear. The voice sounds a little rough. But it's not awkward, even though their intimacy has been broken, paused midway through. Jared can't help but feel like he caused it somehow, but if Jensen want to gloss over it, he's game.

"What?"

"Something my mom says to me when I look like I'm thinking deep thoughts, I guess." He pulls back a little, standing up straight and smoothing the fabric of his t-shirt down, as if erasing Jared's touch. Jensen fingers linger over that same spot Jared had touched, just before the other man had pulled away. 'Huh,' he thinks, wondering about its importance, its significance.

"I looked like I was thinking deep thoughts?" He asks, teasing, unable to keep from smiling at Jensen. Everything feels ok with this man, right and comfortable, as if they'd known each other for years.

"Surprised you didn't hit oil," Jensen quips, smirking before turning to open the fridge, a lemon-meringue colored relic that had to be from the the sixties, if not earlier. He pulls out eggs and peppers, some salsa and a loaf of bread.

"Almost Spanish omelet?" He sets the food down, waiting for Jared's answer. Jared hadn't eaten in years, though it wasn't for inability. He'd savored food when he was human, and his heightened senses only made the experience better, but he'd been brought up with the idea that sharing food was half the pleasure, savoring bites between conversation with people one cared about. He didn't have anyone, not really, so he'd forgone eating in favor of the connection forged in blood, the few gulps of ecstasy he shared with strangers before licking their wounds closed and pulling his image from their heads, leaving misty confusion behind.

Jensen's staring at him, brow quirked. "Oh," Jared says, realizing that staring blankly isn't the appropriate response to a breakfast question. "Yeah, sounds good." He shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. Jensen works quickly, slicing onions and peppers, beating eggs and milk, sprinkling salt and pepper liberally. Jared's offers of help are rebuffed, so he remains seated, watching the other man move through the kitchen confidently, assured. He produces ipod speakers from the suitcase that's still on the floor in the living room and soon, Pink Floyd becomes the soundtrack to his work. It's not long after that the food is done, Jensen setting a steaming plate in front of him.

The first bite, though hot, is an awakening of taste, of flavors long forgot, lost in Jared for far too long. He 'mmms' his pleasure, looking up at the mirth on the other man's face.

"I take it the food's alright, then?" Jensen asks, his own uneaten bite hovering in front of his mouth.

"Fantastic," Jared says around the tang of onion and salsa.

"I'm glad."

"So..." Jared looks at the camera on the table, an alien little device with buttons that, if he tried to play around with, he'd leave in a state of snarled oblivion that even Jensen probably couldn't fix. "Are you a photographer?"

Jared watches Jensen shift a bit, hesitation pulling around his muscles, dampening the easy relaxation of the mood. "I am," he says. "Took a break awhile ago, but I'm back, I think." His voice barely breaks the space between them, but Jared hears the words, the clenching tension behind them, paved over with a sort of blankness, a will to forget.

"Did something happen?" Jared doesn't think, just responds to what he sees, forgetting how humans and vampires alike enjoy their delusions, building illusions that make everything alright, never addressing what lies beneath. And though Jensen does wince, almost imperceptibly, he doesn't get angry. His blood pressure remains the same, steady, like the flow of a babbling river.

"Yeah," Jensen says, drawing the word out like a sigh. "I want to tell you. I don't know why." He glances at Jared, a tic of the eyes, then goes back to staring at the table. "But not now." With a smile that is a mockery of the real thing, he goes back to his omelet. "It's not exactly something you talk about over breakfast."

Jared accepts this, feeling oddly warm. The kiss should have maybe been a hint, but the way Jensen assures him, the fact that he wants to share something that's obviously painful tells him that whatever he's feeling isn't one-sided, and maybe, hopefully, it isn't just lust. "Can I ask," he bows his head a little, moving to bring Jensen's gaze up a little, to coax him back to the present, "What kind of work did you do?"

"A lot of portraits," Jensen says, rubbing his index finger on the table in figure-eights. "Real people, the kind that don't know how to lie to a camera." He shrugs, rolls his eyes. "But I did some editorial work as well, shot for a lot of fashion magazines to get by. And landscapes, those were always nice. I usually work in black and white, though—my apartment has a dark room for it when I get sick of digital." Jared sees the passion Jensen has for his job, his art on the other man's face, the way he transforms into a man with no problems, a child talking about his dreams. The light sprinkle of freckles across Jensen's face that Jared hadn't noticed before only enhance it. He wants to touch his lips to every one, to mark them, memorize the constellations on Jensen's skin.

"Wow," he says, breaking the silence. "Models, huh?"

"Yeah," it's accompanied with a grimace. "What about you?" Jensen asks, changing the subject. "What do you do?"

"I'm an aerospace engineer," Jared says.

"Nice," Jensen blinks, impressed. "Shit, are they looking for you?"

That concern again, the instinct Jensen seems to have for others warms Jared. "Nah," he says, laughing at his circumstances. "Actually, this is my vacation week." Jensen guffaws, throwing his head back, light laughter filling the air, blending in with the sad guitar solo of 'Wish You Were Here.' It must have shuffled on when they were talking; Jared didn't notice it until now but he pays it no attention because he's staring at Jensen's neck again, willing his teeth not to shift, not to expose him, to turn him into something that goes bump in the night, at least in Jensen's eyes.

"Way to spend a vacation," he laughs, bringing his chin down.

"Well," Jared says, lacing his words with hope, but preparing for rejection, "The beginning sort of sucked, but it's definitely looking up."

"You're sure you won't let me take you to a hospital?"

The non sequitur hurts, implying that Jensen doesn't want him there, that he would be glad to be rid of his unexpected guest.

"Yeah," Jared sits back in his chair, deflating a little. "But I mean, if you—"

"Because if you won't let me," Jensen interrupts, "Then I think you should stay here. Rest, maybe." Jensen's looking anywhere but at Jared. "That is, I mean, if you want to. If you don't have anywhere else to be."

"I don't."

Jensen just nods, but the twitch of his mouth shows Jared that he's pleased. That his company is wanted.

"M'kay," he says, and they go back to eating, the sounds of chewing replacing conversation. The effortless silence slips back in, covering them like a quilt in the winter. No words are exchanged when they get up and clear their plates, though Jared almost slips, moves a little too easily before he remembers that he's playing the walking wounded, that his steps should be stiff, at the least. So he holds himself straight, arms pulled in, protesting when Jensen tells him he should just sit, feigning relief and a bit of pain when he listens.

"I'm going to look at the photos, maybe edit them a little," Jensen wipes his hands on a dishtowel, picks the camera up and pulls its memory card out. "The room across from mine is up for grabs. I can't imagine the couch is all that comfortable." He's studying the memory card, the gears of his mind practically visible. Jared likes the almost compulsion Jensen has; it fascinates him, the idea of being so in love with something that it becomes absorbing, a need rather than a want.

"Sounds good," Jared says. "Maybe I'll take a nap." Jensen nods, starts to move away, but then jerks back for his suitcase, where he rummages around for a moment before handing Jared a pair of shorts and a long shirt.

"I would give you pants, man, but I have the feeling my jeans would look like man-capris on you."

Jared has to bite his tongue to keep from telling Jensen just how comfortable said fashion trend is. What? He's old, and they'd been all the rage in the late 1800s. But he just accepts the clothes, fingers skimming over Jensen's as they're handed over.

"You should take a shower." Jensen's eyes are narrowed, inspecting Jared closely.

"What?" Jared doesn't sweat like humans anymore—his body can't support the bacteria that cause body odor. Though, he is less than squeaky clean. Though none of his blood made it to his hair, he did encounter a lot of dirt during his tangle in the woods last night.

"No, no," Jensen holds his hands up, cackling. "I didn't mean it like that. Your hands, though—they're freezing. You should take a shower to warm up."

***

Jensen settles at his desk, cracking his back as his laptop powers on. He hears the shower turn on, the familiar sound of water hitting the floor, but everything goes quiet as he puts soundproof ear buds in, taking away one of his senses to up the others, to focus his vision completely, looking for new, original angles that tell stories. Anyone can trap time—he wants his pictures alive, part of a scene so real, so close to the viewer that they're fooled into believing they're in them, alongside Jensen's subjects. He knows his technique is dumb, that it probably doesn't even make sense scientifically, but it's how he's always done it and he'll take the placebo effect any day if it helps him in his quest for originality.

He inserts the memory card into the its dock on the computer, opens the folder and pulls up the frames, picture after picture of up-tipped eyes and close-up facial shots. He opens one where Jared's looking away, eyes gliding to the side, framed by those long lashes he'd admired when the other man was asleep. His irises have caught the light that shines over his sharp cheekbone, and the pupil almost looks iridescent, like the eyeshines of an animal at night. Jensen thinks it's sort of cool, a unique little lens flare that he doesn't bother taking out. The picture hints of movement, like there's someone just out of sight that Jared's looking for, about to speak. The picture has expectation, is like a breath in before speech.

It's good.

It's the first he's taken in a long time, and it's good. He hasn't lost the touch, the spark that drove him to start taking pictures in the first place, but it had been hidden well, buried beneath the layers he'd accumulated, beneath invisible scar tissue and experiences that were burned into him, there every time he closed his eyes. They're there now, the curling, almost incandescent desert air and the screams that follow. He can't escape what's in his head.

The rational part of him, the one that screamed at him last night for taking in a stranger who could very well be a serial killer sparks again at his willingness to share his demons, the ones he hasn't told anyone about, not even his family, his blood. Maybe it's the anonymity, being so far away from society, isolated with a man he'll probably never see again after this week (though a part of him wishes, however blindly, that it wasn't true)-maybe that's where his courage comes from. But maybe it's also the way his stomach feels like it's falling through his feet when he thinks of Jared, when he stares at the picture in front of him and knows he wants more than sex from the other man.

If Jensen's logic had access to a weapon of some sort, it would be beating him over the head with it. He's a man. He has desires and wants and maybe even crushes, but Jared defies all that in a way that doesn't make sense for having known him for under 48 hours. He doesn't believe in love at first sight or fairy tales and soul mates because the world isn't like that, doesn't make perfect matches. People are like jagged puzzle pieces—there's no perfect fit, just the will to work it out with the person who's willing to stick around. But that was before he was hit with attraction so swift it left him reeling, his mind muddled.

He clicks through the pictures, stopping on a close-up where Jared's staring straight into the camera. His expression is intense—he's looking through the camera, focused on the person behind it, almost unaware of his likeness being frozen. There's something in the gaze that pulls at Jensen, that thickens his throat and makes his chest tight, a sadness that comes from nowhere and pulls tight.

Without knowing why, really, only that he has to move now, has to see Jared this instant, he's standing, then he's in the hall, in front of Jared's door, which swings open as he raises a fist to knock.

"Woah," Jared says, a short laugh putting a period at the exclamation. "Sorry, I was just going to see if you had a brush I could use." He motions to his hair, but all Jensen can see is the way his shirt is sticking a little to Jared's body, made translucent in patches by water not caught with the towel he used to dry off.

"So do you have oneoomph—" Jensen cuts short Jared's question by placing a hand on the other man's chest, arching up to meet his lips softly, angling a kiss that asks permission. Jared grants it, pulling Jensen into his arms so their chests are flush against one another, their hearts echoing back and forth until they starts to synch, to beat in time together. Jensen wonders, briefly, how Jared's somehow impervious to the pain he should be feeling, but then the other man's hand slides up through his hair, nails raking the scalp and the shudders of bliss turn off his ego to let his id come out and play. It's all soft touches at first—slow, sensual fingers up his ribs that help lift his shirt off, which gets caught on his head for a moment because this is real life it's messy, but it makes them both laugh, break apart for a moment to catch breath and then he's being pulled back in, face cupped on either side and then savored. Savored. It's the only right word for the way Jared draws his lips over Jensen's cheekbones, from one side to another before pressing closer, whispering three words that send them farther into the room, almost violently:

"I want you."

Jared walks him back to the bed, never breaking their embrace. The kiss turns insistent, a push toward connection, each one trying to show the other how right this is, how natural it feels. Jensen manages to push Jared's pants down before he's pushed down, flat against the mattress, pulling the other man with him, on top of him. Sloppy touches, wet mouths against skin continue until they're naked and rutting against one another. Jensen's world whites out when Jared reaches down and encircles him with a dexterous fingers, rubbing and stroking and pulling firm, a confusing mix of stimuli that has him gasping and cursing and swearing devotion because fuck, it's amazing. He knows he's going to come soon so he stills Jared's hand, reaches down himself and mimics what was done to him until Jared's doing some garbling of his own and resumes his ministrations until they both flood the others' hand, strangled cries rebounding off drenched skin and aching muscles.

When the aftershocks finish rolling through, Jensen opens his eyes to find Jared looking at him with something like awe painted over his features. He offers a shy smile, spots tissues on the nightstand (Really, really good caretakers, he thinks), and palms a few, reaching between them to clean up the sticky wetness that reminds him too much of his summer here all those years ago, though he doesn't mention that because he's not a mood-killer.

"I think you've broken my brain," Jensen laugh-whispers, the idiocy of his own thoughts almost amusing enough to share. He wads up the tissue and tosses it across the room, where it misses the waste basket by at least two feet.

"I'm ok with that," Jared says, adjusting, pulling Jensen close again, grazing his hips. Jensen stiffens, swallows hard and moves the other man's fingers a little lower so they trace a raised ring of scar tissue.

"I used to be sort of a hotshot," He says, staring at the wall in front of him, Jared's chest pressed into his back. "You couldn't walk through New York without seeing a billboard I'd shot. But it wasn't enough, you know? All coked-out models and fashion I wasn't actually interested in. I wanted to be taken seriously, wanted to break ground, somehow." His breath quickens, but he keeps going, can't stop what he's started, not now, when he's so close to it, so close to taking back control, looking it dead in the eye and moving on.

"So one day, after I have this huge write-up in the New Yorker after a show of mine, I get a call. There's a reporter going to Iraq to interview soldiers that have been stationed in this really unstable town and the people who live there, too. It was a major magazine, was going to get a massive reading. And I jumped at it, without even thinking." If his voice cracks, he doesn't address it, just keeps talking, forming words, one after another. Jared's hand finds his, squeezes and he feels his heart fill just a little.

"It was rough, but I was fascinated by the people there, the way the soldier's eyes looked dead, unsure, scared, even. And the townspeople, God. Even as I photographed them I started to feel sick. I was exploiting them." Jensen hiccups, feeling, for the first time, the hot wet tracks that have made their way down his face, dropping one after another off his nose.

"And then, a few days before we're supposed to leave, the town got attacked. I'm running for my life back to the base, but I had to take cover. And when I did, there was a woman there." Jensen sees her, draped in black, eyes pleading in a universal language. "She was holding a baby that was covered in blood. Hers, I think. She wanted me to save it, God—the way she looked at me, I—" He's choking now, memories flooding back like black tar in his veins, burning him from the inside. Jared's hands move up and down his back, but he doesn't feel them.

"So I took the baby, held it to my chest and just ran with everything I had. But I got stopped. I was lucky, really, that the bullet went in and out as cleanly as it did, that it didn't ricochet off my pelvis or hip. But I fell. I fell hard. And when I could move, however long after that, the baby wasn't moving. I don't know how long I laid there, but by the time they got to me, I couldn't do anything. It was too—"

There's nothing more to say; the truth is finally outside, no longer trapped in his body. Jensen doesn't know what he expects; realistically, he knows he's not to blame but it doesn't stop the guilt that crushes his shoulders, forcing him to stay upright under the burden of his mistakes. Jared turns him—how is he so strong?—And just pulls his face close, taking long, slow breaths that Jensen mimics automatically. And then things get hazy, like time just slows down and he feels like he's dissolving, breaking into particles because he feels light, so light, and maybe even a little bit free.

When Jensen wakes, it's like surfacing. He gasps, chest heaving, sitting up in the darkness, on a bed that isn't his and still carries the mixed smell of deodorant and shampoo and sex. He's alone, which startles his more than anything because it's amazing how wrong and empty it feels not to wake up the way he'd fallen asleep, tucked carefully in Jared's long arms. He slides his legs out from under the sheets, tugs on the pants he'd left bunched on the floor and calls for Jared, who doesn't answer.

"Jared?" He walks through the kitchen, peers into the living room, but still, nothing, no one. The porch seems like the next best bet, but it's empty too and his Jeep is still there, so without another thought he circles around the house, looking, listening for a sign from the other man. A sharp crack, like a stick breaking sounds behind him so he whips around, peering into the murky ink of night until he thinks he sees something man-shaped, but it can't be, no, because human eyes don't have the illumination that the set he stares into contain; no—human eyes, he knows, do not glow.


End file.
